


Just Another Day in December

by Johnismyloveforever64



Category: The Beatles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 06:36:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12953460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnismyloveforever64/pseuds/Johnismyloveforever64
Summary: On a snowy day in December, Paul drops by an old friend's house. There's gossip, cheeky fun, and reminiscing. But when John makes a big proposition, will Paul be able to accept a big life change?





	Just Another Day in December

Snow fell gently to the ground. The sky was a milky gray. And standing in front of an isolated cottage was a man of 75. His hair was graying at the edges, but he wouldn’t admit. He held a bottle of wine at his side. His gloveless fingers pressed hard against the doorbell. He took one step back, staring intently through the narrow window. He watched as shadows moved across the walls, slowly getting closer. 

The rustic handle rattled, and the door opened wide. A 77 year-old man wearing a Chuck Berry t-shirt answered the door.   
His eyes lighting up, he said, “Macca?”

“Johnny, dear?” 

The older man wrapped his arms around the younger man, pulling him in close. 

“You came?” John breathed. 

“Yeah, I had time between shows, so I thought I’d stop by.”

“Well, the door is always open,” John replied, leading him into the house. 

John put the coffee on, and the friends sat at his kitchen island while they waited. 

“I see you’re still tweeting up a storm about Trump?”

“Lemme ask you something. have I ever been able to keep my mouth shut?”

“No.”

“Then why start now?” He replied cheekily.

“But I have to say,” Paul added, “forbidding him from using your music at your rallies. That was genius.”

John was quite smug about that. 

“And then you copied me,” John added with some playful animosity.

“George did it first.”

“So you copied George who copied me. I see. Nothing’s changed.”

Paul would comment, but he was used to this sort of ribbing. 

“How’s Yoko?” Paul dropped like an A-bomb. John’s face fell.

“She’s fine. I talked to her not that long ago. Still in that apartment by the way.”

“With your money?”

“Yeah,” it came out as one frank sound. “But I run into her from time to time in New York. What about you? Have you spoken to Jane?”

“Asher?” Paul chuckled. “I haven’t seen her in years.”

“She’s not in the club.”

“What club?”

“Cyn, Pattie, and May joined some ex-wives club. Yoko wouldn’t join, because you know, she doesn’t play nice with others.”

“You say that like its news to us.” John playfully swatted at Paul who swatted back. They broke into easy laughter.

Once they had their coffee the pair sat together on his couch. Paul immediately took in his surroundings. It’d been a couple years since he’d been in this house, and it seemed very different. With the exception of antique posters from concerts they attended in their youth, and of course, a handful of Grammy’s intermixed with picture frames, the room had changed. He had swapped out a leather couch with some lime green thing from the ‘70s. He bought some other antique pieces which were placed in various corners. And of course, hanging on the wall was the guitar he played on Sullivan. Paul leaned forward to admire it. 

“When’s the last time you played that one?”

John removed it from the hook and handed it to him. 

“Every now and then I like to just, you know…” he trailed off, suddenly focused on the array of photos on an end table. “Did you watch it?” He asked suddenly. “You know,   
when they re-aired it?”

“Yeah, did you find it as strange as I did?”

“Not as weird as watching Shea Stadium—I don’t think my speakers could handle the screaming.”

“Not sure how our ear drums handled it.”

They shared a smirk. John broke it off. He fell back against the couch, his gray hair falling around him like an angelic crown. Paul touched his knee gently. 

“We’re so fucking old.”

Paul laughed, and John broke into a smile. He poked at Paul’s nose who stuck his tongue out. Now John was really laughing. 

“I missed you,” John said lovingly. 

“Me too.”

“So,” John clapped his hands together. “What do you wanna do?” He set the guitar aside. 

Paul’s smile lit up his face. 

“All of my friends just want to sit around a coffee table, and well,” he pointed to his mug, “but the great John Lennon always has better plans.”

John gave him a cheeky smile and hopped up from the couch. Paul looked at the older man in envy as they moved through the living room. While Paul had kept himself in shape, John had taken it quite far. He was very thin and was known to be an active swimmer. He could swim fifty laps in one go. Paul couldn’t have dreamed of that in his youth. Plus, the older man had never lost his Romanic good looks. He still looked chiseled from the gods. And while all these thoughts ran through his head, John felt the same way about him. 

John practically leapt through the back door and out to the massive back garden. The garden stretched for four acres. Some of it, at the farthest stretches was used for farming. And in the distance, Paul could see little stalks sticking out of the snow. But much of the garden was a cleared out as one big field. John used this to have concerts in his back garden whether there were people here to attend or not. whenever his sons came to visit, they always jammed together back here. Paul wondered briefly if that’s why he’d brought him out here. 

“John, it’s a little cold, and if you want to jam maybe we should go in—“   
Whack! A snowball hit Paul right in the face.

“Not in the face!” Paul shouted back. He quickly compacted a large snowball and tossed it at his mate. John dodged it and threw another in Paul’s direction. This one skimmed Paul’s shoulder but landed with a plop on the ground. 

The two then ran to opposite sides of the garden, where they pulled together a small arsenal of snow. they were equal matches for each other, and each was hit with the face a few times. 

“No face!” Paul called out.

“Same to you!” John yelled as he was hit with another snowball. He threw one at Paul’s back who dodged it. Paul then scooped up a whopper of a snowball and with great effort whacked John in the shoulder with it. John then dramatically wheezed and fell to the ground, his legs twitching. Paul crawled over to him, smirking. 

“Johnny, Johnny!” he sounded like a soap actress. He poked John’s shoulder. John grinned and sat straight up. Paul was again amazed at his agility. 

“Sorry about your field,” John said softly.

“We could watch that you know. I have the Blu-Ray.”

“What? In your car?”

“It was a present.”

“God, you are so vain,” John scoffed. Paul rolled his eyes dramatically. John was filled with admiration. “Come on,” John continued standing up, “let’s go watch our younger selves and try not to vomit.”

“Because it’s bad?”

“Because we’re decrepit.”

“We’re not!” Paul reminded him, chasing after him. 

An hour later, John and Paul were on the couch, wrapped in an electric blanket watching A Hard Day’s Night. Paul kept looking over at John, in disbelief that he was keeping quiet. Normally, he had a running commentary. Typically, he made fun of their hair or George’s adorable scouse accent. But today, he just watched silently. 

“John?” 

“Yep?”

“Is this bothering you?”

“How old were we, Paul? When we filmed this?”

“You were 23.”

“God,” John groaned, “has it been that long.”

“Are you having a bit of a crisis?”

“Paul, this is serious. We’re old.”

“So? We’ve been old. I thought you would’ve gotten over it by now.”

“That’s not the point. It’s just, a little—I don’t know. I just hate how fast time is moving. I wish I could slow it down.” He sighed heavily, looking at the guitar on the wall.  
Paul stood up then. 

“Wait right there.”

He raced out of the hall and John sat there dumbly. Paul returned minutes later with his bass. John immediately picked up his guitar. 

“Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you,” Paul sang, strumming his bass. John followed his lead and did the same on his guitar. “Tomorrow I’ll miss you.”  
Together they sang: “Remember I’ll always be true. And while I’m away I’ll write home every day. and I’ll send all my loving to you.”  
As they played, time seemed to slip just a little. no matter what decade it was, or what year it was, this connection had always stayed the same. Glassy eyed, they finished the   
song.

“But you know what,” Paul said once they had gone through about half of their early stuff, “I think I’m gonna move out here.”

“What about the Hamptons?”

“I can’t have two houses.”

“Or four.”

Paul shrugged. 

“Or, instead of buying yet another McCartney estate, there’s plenty of room here.”

Paul’s eyes lit up, but he tried not to show it. 

“You want me to move in with you?”

“Paul, I’m at a fuck-it-I-don’t-care point in my life. So, if you wanna a bed, take one.” Paul was taken aback. “Look, I know you have to tour, and I know you have like eleven kids—“

“Four kids.”

“—whatever—I just know that whenever you need a place to stay, I think it should be with me.”

A smile spread across Paul’s face. He snuggled up to his old mate.

“You mean grow old with you?”

John rested his head on Paul’s shoulder. “Grow old with me, dear. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.”

“Okay,” Paul whispered, his eyes starting to close. John looked at his mate affectionately. He picked up his phone to type a note in his phone. He then tossed it aside, the screen the only light source in the room. the lock screen contained a photo of John at his 70th birthday party, the words 8th of December blocked their smiling faces. John turned it off, the screen going dark. He let out a contented sigh.~


End file.
